


Can I Just Pretend You're Mine

by uistic



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Gentle Sex, Jealousy, Loneliness, M/M, Post-Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9082786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uistic/pseuds/uistic
Summary: Back when he was with Marek, Seth used to love Valentine’s Day. But that might as well have been a lifetime ago and if the string of failed relationships after has taught him anything, it's that he's a pretty shitty partner. Valentine's is a couples' holiday, and Seth doesn't see himself ever being part of a couple again. If he can't be good at it, what's the point of even trying? Mostly he's fine with it. It's not like he sits around moping, but he's still relieved when Valentine's sees him on another tour with the final stop in Abu Dhabi, sun and sand and glittering water and not a fucking rose in sight. Then Dean gets the pin on him after hooking him with a Dirty Deeds and his day takes an instant turn for the worse.





	

"You have got to be kidding me." Seth steps back and pulls out his earbuds as Roman and Dean crowd into the elevator right behind him.  

Dean dismisses him like that much empty air. Roman raises his chin a fraction. "Rollins. Which floor?" 

"Seventh?" It’s not meant to come out as a question, or rather, the question was meant to be another. Roman presses the buttons for floors seven and five before he turns his back on Seth, picking his conversation with Dean right back up. 

"It's great, man. I can’t believe you haven't seen it. If I'd known I'd've sat your ass down to watch it years ago." 

As the doors close and the elevator whirrs to life, Seth's left staring at their backs, trying to quell the adrenaline rush brought on by his body's wasted fight-or-flight response. Halfway between the fourth and fifth floor the elevator shudders and comes to a full stop. Seth blinks. It takes him a moment to process what just happened, and when he does, he lets out a bitter laugh. Isn’t this just perfect? 

Roman shoots him one of those unreadable looks and presses the emergency-button. The loudspeaker crackles and buzzes around static and fragmented words.  

"We're stuck in the elevator. Dean Ambrose, Seth Rollins, Roman Reigns. Nobody's hurt, but if you wanna get us out anytime soon, we'd appreciate it." 

There's some more static, a garble of unintelligible words, and then the transmission cuts off. Roman releases the button. "Well," he says, dry as ashes, looking over at Seth and Dean in closer proximity than they’ve been in months. "The dirt sheets are gonna have a field day with this. " 

Dean snorts. He drops his bag and sinks down on the floor, settling in for a wait. "Don't suppose you’ve got a deck of cards or something?" 

He's still not looking at Seth. Seth rolls his eyes - a meaningless gesture when neither of them are watching - and puts back his earbuds, turning up the volume to max. Two can play that fucking game. It's not like he particularly wants Dean's attention. 

He pulls up his phone and considers calling Hunter, but he’s feeling oddly self-conscious about talking to him where Roman and Dean can hear. Instead he updates Instagram with a photo of his dress shoes on the red carpet, then scrolls through his Twitter feed to kill time. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Roman settle down on the floor next to Dean and launch into an animated discussion of whatever movie it is that Dean hasn't seen. Could be any one, really. Dean's childhood wasn't exactly conducive to keeping up with popular culture. 

Being ignored ought to be better than the alternative, but it’s quickly sucking all the oxygen out of the room. The elevator's too small for this. He can’t look _anywhere_ without looking at them, and it feels like he's performing, only they don't care and he can't stop, because his face can’t remember what normal feels like. 

He scrolls through his Twitter feed ten times, checks his e-mail at least five, and flips through his playlist at random. Finally he sighs in exasperation, kills the music and glares at the others. 

"All right, I give up." Seth pulls out the earbuds and rolls the cord in a futile attempt to keep it from getting tangled in his pocket. "What the hell are you doing here? This isn't your hotel." 

Roman arches an eyebrow at him. "You keeping tabs on us?" 

"Am I keeping tabs on the two men most likely to jump me outside of the ring? You’re damned right I am." 

"Yeah, sorry about that," Dean says, like an offhand 'sorry' is enough to make up for months of ambushes, humiliating pranks, ruined matches and actual beatings. Seth knows the size and shape of Dean Ambrose's fists so intimately that he could pick them out in a lineup in the dark. Dean's smartphone buzzes and Dean, who has never answered a text promptly in his life, pulls it out and starts typing. "You can relax," he adds, like an afterthought. "I'm over it." 

Over it? _Over_ it? Seth grits his teeth and refuses to be affected by the childish game he's playing, acting like whoever's on the phone is a higher priority than Seth, when Seth is standing right fucking there. 

"Why the hell should I trust you?" 

"I dunno." Dean shrugs and keeps typing. What is he writing, a novel? "Be paranoid, I don't care." 

That's not how this works, this thing between them. Something changed at Hell in a Cell, but for all that Dean's been looking through him in the hallways, moving on to Bray freaking Wyatt like Seth never existed, there is no way Dean is over him. He doesn't get to walk away. Not when Seth's tried and failed for months. 

"So why are you here?" 

Dean ignores him. After a long, tense silence, Roman sighs. 

"There's a thing." 

”A thing." Seth's voice is flat. 

Roman’s a nicer guy than Seth and Dean put together. Nice enough to look uncomfortable. "Movie night. Some of the guys are getting together." He pauses, hesitantly. "You, uh. You could come?" 

Dean's head whips up so fast it'd be funny if anything ever was, where the three of them are concerned. Seth gives a tight little smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "Since when are you hanging out with the rest of the roster?" 

"Since Renee and Paige started inviting us." 

Seth... can see that, actually. The Shield never targeted the girls, so there'd be no hard feelings. Paige hails from a long line of wrestlers, just like Roman. Probably grew up on the stories, one foot in the ring before she could walk. It’s no surprise she and Roman would hit it off. And Renee is funny and gorgeous, balances her kindness with a razor sharp wit. She'd need that to keep up with Dean. He wonders if they're fucking. He wonders if Renee knows about the way Dean shivers when you run your nails across his neck, or the sound he makes when you kiss the scar right below his left shoulder blade. 

”Oh. Cool.” Seth turns away, feigning interest in his phone. He pushes the screen at random, trying to look like a man with a full social calendar. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Roman’s expression change, from _oh god get me out of here_ to something more complicated. It’s not pity, exactly, and it can’t be guilt, because god knows Roman fucking Reigns has never done anything to feel guilty about in his entire life. It is something, though. 

"For real, man. You should come." 

Dean scoffs. "Like hell he should." 

"Dean, c'mon." 

"Can't," Seth says, and he can't look up, can't stand to see the look on Roman's face. "Got a date." 

He can feel Ambrose staring at him. "A date." 

His voice is thick with disbelief. Seth can’t exactly blame him, and not just because it's a bold-faced lie. Seth hasn’t had a date in - yeah, no, better not go there. The point is, he doesn't date. He's not into one night stands and the kind of life they lead doesn’t lend itself to relationships, as his last couple of disastrous efforts have well proven. Roman manages, but Roman’s pretty much Superman.  

"I didn't know you were seeing anyone," Superman says. 

"You keeping tabs on me?" It’s nice to throw it back in his face, even if it's a little sharper than he intended. "It's kinda recent. We're trying to keep it low profile." 

"Good for you, man." 

The weird thing is, Roman sounds like he means it. Dean still looks at him like he's full of it, and Seth feels simultaneously vindicated to have Dean's undivided attention and insulted. He _could_ be dating. Who'd lie about something like that? 

"Anyone we know?" Dean asks. 

Seth hesitates. It can’t be a wrestler or there's no way he'd be able to keep this quiet. It can’t not be a wrestler, not with their crazy schedule and all the hours on the road. The stage hands gossip as bad as the talent and they all know he can’t hack long distance and for every second it takes him to answer, Dean’s eyebrows climb just a little higher. 

”Nah. You don’t know him." 

”Him, huh?” Dean says, eyes narrowing. ”I thought your gay phase ended about the same time you stopped doing porn.” 

Roman chokes and splutters, shooting Dean a scandalized look, and Seth can’t tell if it's because he didn’t know about Cyberfights, or because he thinks it ought to be a dirty little secret no one ever talks about.  

”There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Ambrose." 

Just then, the elevator jerks to life, making him stumble. There's an awkward silence as the doors open on the fifth floor and Dean and Roman get to their feet. 

"So," Roman says, still uncomfortable and red-faced.  

"Yeah," Seth says.  

"We'll... see you around, I guess. Good luck with your date."  

He nods at Seth and exits the elevator. Dean follows, but stops right in front of Seth, looking at him like he’s a particularly nasty bug stuck under his shoe. ”I don't know what you’re playing at, Rollins,” he says quietly. "We both know that date of yours is about as real as your sense of decency. But if you get Roman hurt over this, I'm going to personally rip you to pieces." 

Seth arches his eyebrows. "It’s not Roman I have a problem with." 

"Then move on. Your obsession is showing and whatever you’re angling for is not gonna happen." He shoves Seth back and stalks away, through the crowd of curious onlookers. Seth stares after him until the elevator doors closes, and only then does he release a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. The scent of Dean's no-brand shampoo follows him all the way into his room. 

 

The next morning, Seth wakes up to a barrage of tweets and texts, including three missed calls from Hunter. Before he has a chance to decide where to start, the phone buzzes, and he answers to Hunter’s dry: "Why am I hearing rumors about the Shield being reunited?" 

"What?" Seth rubs his face. "That's- goddammit. We got stuck in a damn elevator. It doesn't mean anything." 

"You had no business being in the same elevator to begin with." 

”I know, I know. It wasn’t up to me. What was I to do, tackle them out of my way and run?” He doesn’t point out that three WWE Superstars in a brawl in a hotel lobby in Chicago would have looked even worse in the headlines. He doesn’t need to.  

”All right,” Hunter says, in a voice that implies that it’s anything but. ”We’ll discuss this on the plane. You’ve got a car picking you up in twenty minutes. Don’t be late. And Seth?" 

”Yes?" 

”For god's sake, don’t be early either. The last thing we need is some nosy journalist trying to get a scoop out of you before we decide how to play this." 

By ’we’, Hunter means ’I’. Seth rolls his eyes, a luxury of being on the phone, and agrees. Twenty minutes to shower, dress and pack up doesn’t leave time for arguments. 

Hunter is in a lousy mood. It’s evident in the set of his jaws, the slightly-too-hard slap to Seth’s shoulders as he greets him at the airport, and the grim, no-nonsense look he shoots him to shut him up before he has a chance to open his mouth. Seth bites back a sigh and readies himself for a long, tense flight. Getting to travel in business class does little to make up for Hunter radiating disapproval and annoyance at him.  

They’re on their way to Birmingham to kick off a ten-day European tour. He’s doing the A-tour, Dean and Roman the B-tour, and it’s always a relief when their schedules take them to different places.  

”All right,” Hunter says, once the seatbelt signs have been turned off and the steward has been by with their complimentary drinks. ”What happened?" 

”Nothing happened. We got caught in the elevator, that’s all." 

”Seth.” Hunter says his name like he’s being a brat, and, yeah, occasionally that tone is warranted. Occasionally, that’s the tone that sets all his daddy kinks off like fireworks and makes for a couple of awkward moments while he’s trying to look like he’s not thinking about being bent over and fucked by his boss. But this time he’s being cooperative, or would be, if there were anything to actually cooperate about. 

”What do you want me to say? They pretty much ignored me. We didn’t talk. You know I’ve got nothing to say to them." 

Hunter just looks at him until Seth’s squirming and ready to confess every sin he’s ever committed and some he’s only ever thought about, just to get that close scrutiny to end. ”Look, Hunter. We’re not friends. They wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire.” There’s a pleading tone in his voice that he fucking hates, and he knows he’s not selling this as well as he should. Which is ridiculous, since there’s nothing to sell. 

”I’m not worried about them,” Hunter says. ”What I want to know is - if they gave you a chance to come back, would you take it?" 

”No!” It’s loud enough to warrant a few annoyed glares, and Seth lowers his voice. ”No. Siding with the Authority is the best thing I’ve ever done. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I’m loyal. You’ve got to know that by now." 

But that’s the thing, and Seth knows it even before he says it, has known it ever since that night. His loyalty will never be a selling point again. Hunter chose him and made him and cherishes him, sure, but he will never actually trust him. Because he’s not stupid. Because there’s only one thing anyone can be absolutely certain about, when it comes to Seth Rollins: that he’s a liar and a backstabber willing to do just about anything to get ahead. It’s not a great foundation for trust, even Seth can see that. 

”That’s all I wanted to hear,” Hunter says mildly, but Seth has known him long enough now to recognize the steel underneath. ”You look beat. Why don’t you rest for a bit? You’ve got a rough couple of weeks coming up, and we wouldn’t want Mr Money in the Bank to be at anything but his best, would we?" 

He pats Seth’s knee, dismissing him. As he pulls out his laptop to get a couple of hours of work in, Seth might as well be invisible. He can't help but wonder when that happened, when he became someone others found so easy to ignore. He bites back another sigh, takes up his headphones and leans his chair back as far as it will go. It’s going to be one long flight. 

 

Back in the States after a tour that went off without a hitch, Seth has almost managed to forget about the awkward moment in the elevator. Almost, until he winds up milling about in gorilla where Dean and Roman are hovering ominously, waiting for Roman's match against Sheamus. When Roman goes on, Dean catches Seth's gaze across the floor. 

”Hey, Rollins,” Dean says, pitching his voice to carry. ”How was your date?” 

Heads turn and Seth finds himself trapped with all bad choices. Walk away and look like a coward, ignore Dean and run the risk of him causing a scene, or engage, and suffer the fallout when Hunter finds out in about, oh, the next five minutes or so. 

”My what?” Seth says, articulately. 

”Oh, man. That bad, huh? You got stood up or something?” 

That's when he understands what Dean is talking about. Acutely aware of the stage hands and talent trying to look like they're not listening in, Seth steps closer and lowers his voice. ”What? No. It was fine.” 

”Fine, huh?” Dean grins. "So you gonna see ’em again?” 

”None of your fucking business, Ambrose." 

Dean leans back against the wall, looking at Seth like he’s just gave something away. It’s been long enough that Seth had forgotten just how uncomfortable that look can make him feel. ”So, no.” 

”Fuck you, Dean. It’s been weeks. Maybe I already have.” 

”Fair enough,” Dean says, sounding almost congenial, and that’s what trips Seth up, that easy, careless camaraderie. 

”What about you?” he says. ”You seeing anyone?”  

Before the last syllable is out of his mouth he’s ready to take it back, but since he can’t, he just raises his chin and meets Dean’s eyes like his heart isn’t racing at several hundred beats per minute. 

Dean looks him up and down and leers, tip of his tongue poking out between his lips. ”Wouldn’t _you_ like to know.” 

Seth thinks of Renee running her perfect nails across Dean’s chest, Dean’s strong, sure hands on her hips, holding her steady. If Dean is seeing someone - seeing her, because come on, who else could it be? - he doesn't want to know. 

Dean jostles his shoulder on his way past. It’s only when he walks away that Seth realizes that Dean didn’t out him. He could have, easily, just a slip of the tongue, and who could blame him? But he didn’t. 

Seth doesn’t know what to think about that. 

 

Back when he was with Marek, Seth used to love Valentine’s Day. But that might as well have been a lifetime ago and if the string of failed relationships after has taught him anything, it's that he's a pretty shitty partner. Valentine's is a couples' holiday, and Seth doesn't see himself ever being part of a couple again. If he can't be good at it, what's the point of even trying? 

Mostly he's fine with it. It's not like he sits around moping, but he's still relieved when Valentine's sees him on another tour with the final stop in Abu Dhabi, sun and sand and glittering water and not a fucking rose in sight. Then Dean gets the pin on him after hooking him with a Dirty Deeds and his day takes an instant turn for the worse. 

He hates losing and he hates losing to Dean even more, the shame and fury and frustration of it, the way he knows that Dean will hold it against him, take it as irrefutable proof that he's the better wrestler and the better man and that everything Seth's won, he's stolen. 

He's still angry when he gets back to the hotel. The fight has left him restless and anxious and desperate to get laid. It's been months, and the thought of spending another night alone is unbearable. He showers, pulls back his hair, puts on his favorite pair of black skinny jeans and a tight t-shirt before he heads down to the hotel bar, ignoring the flutter of nerves in his belly. He can do this. Orton does it all the time, easy as breathing, and Seth has watched him enough times to know how it goes. 

It turns out it is easy, and for a little while it makes him feel good, feel wanted, the way this gorgeous stranger laughs at his jokes and touches his arm, leans in close enough that he can see right down her cleavage. She reminds him of someone he used to date, way back when, except her waist is slimmer and her eyeliner thicker. 

"I've got to admit," she says, halfway through her second drink, "I know who you are. My ex was a huge wrestling fan. Shield memorabilia all over the damn house. He'd go nuts if he saw us now." 

It's disappointing. Of course she knows, but he wishes she could have kept it to herself a while longer. It's Valentine’s Day and he’s about to have meaningless sex with a stranger who only wants him because her ex saw him on TV and if that doesn’t make him the saddest goddamn loser in the bar, he doesn’t know what does. He forces a smile, offers to buy her another drink, and as her hand slides down his arm he knows that he’s stalling. He has a pretty good idea of what she'll say to her friends, her ex, on the net, and it makes his stomach churn. Just when he’s trying to figure out how to get out of this without making a complete ass of himself, someone puts an arm around his shoulders. 

”There you are, Rollins. Way to keep everyone waiting.” 

The sharp, artificial scent of cherry gum hits him a split second before Dean drapes himself over Seth like he belongs there. Seth’s stomach bottoms out, and for a dizzying moment it’s like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Dean hasn't touched him except to fight him for months. It takes everything he’s got not to lean into the touch. 

His hookup looks between them. ”I thought you hated one another.” 

”You can’t believe everything you see on tv.” Dean grins and ruffles Seth’s hair, then starts pulling him away. "We’re running late, nice meeting you, bye bye now.” 

He drags Seth out of the hotel bar, past the stylish lobby, and into the nearest elevator. When the door closes behind them, he lets go and steps back, and the cold, empty space between them feels like a punch. 

”Don’t thank me or anything,” Dean says, and sticks another gum in his mouth. He leans against the mirrored wall, hands behind his back. 

”What?” 

”You looked fucking miserable. But, hey. If I read it wrong…” 

Seth feels like his head is wrapped in cotton. ”I thought you wanted me to be miserable." 

Dean gives a lopsided grin. ”Well, yeah. But if you’re gonna be self-destructive, at least be a little more creative about it, hmm? Can't believe you're already cheating on loverboy.  Or did Mr. No One You Know wise up and dump your sorry ass?" 

That hurts, and Seth's not sure why. He doesn't know why he said he was dating all those weeks back and he doesn’t know why Dean keeps bringing it up, like it’s the funniest thing he's ever heard. He'll, maybe it is. He can’t even stand to get laid when someone throws themselves at him, so how could he ever build a relationship that lasts? Of all the lies he's ever told - so many that he's long since lost count - that might be the most ridiculous one. He's abruptly tired of it, tired of lying, of pretending that he's not lonely, that Dean's arm around his shoulders wasn't the best thing that's happened to him in weeks and that he'd do anything to get that again. 

 

Back at the room he showers again, just to get rid off the lingering traces of perfume and shame. There's a text from Hunter waiting for him, an order to be down at the lobby at 7.30 in the morning, and he can tell from the tone that Hunter's disappointed. He was supposed to win.

He's _always_ supposed to win. 

He tosses aside the phone without answering, pulls on boxers and jeans. Just as he reaches for the remote there's a familiar knock on the door, knuckles rapping against the wood in a pattern he hasn't heard since the Shield days.  

His heart is racing as he pulls up the door to find Dean standing there, a strange expression on his face. Dean opens his mouth to speak and Seth kisses him. Dean’s lips are soft and part easily, and when Seth takes a step back Dean follows rather than breaking the kiss. 

Seth would have thought that this would be violent, but it’s not. Dean's hands are gentle, mindful of the bruises from their match as they dance over his skin, calling up the memory of warmth and love and laughter in their wake. It hurts more than violence would have.  

Dean tries to speak once or twice and Seth silences him with more kisses. They end up on the bed, all hands and lips and tongues, still clothed, moving against each other like Seth hasn’t done with anyone since he was a teenager, since this was new to him and he was equal parts excited and terrified at the prospect of advancing to the next step. Dean smells like home, like comfort and mercy and heartbreak, and Seth can’t stop breathing it in. He buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, licking the salt from his skin, and Dean runs his fingers through his hair and lays his head back, offering his throat for Seth’s lips and teeth and tongue. 

”Seth, _fuck_ ,” Dean breathes, and it sounds like a prayer. Seth bites down gently, feeling as much as hearing Dean’s rough exhale, fingers tightening in his hair. It’s too much and not enough, and if this is all Seth gets he intends to memorize every last moment of it, etch it into his mind and muscle memory. Dean’s dick is outlined under his jeans and Seth’s hands tremble when he unbuckles the belt. 

Dean grabs his hand and eases up on an elbow, looking at Seth. ”Hey, wait, I don’t have- shit, Seth, I just came to talk, I don’t have any condoms or-” 

”I’m clean,” Seth says, a little too fast. ”Or I can just blow you.”

”This isn't-” 

"Don't.” Seth's voice is tight, panicky. "Don't say it. Just, fuck, close your eyes, pretend it’s someone else, I don't care, please, Dean. Just let me have this. I'll make it good." 

There's a strange expression on Dean’s face as he lets his hand fall. "All right. Yeah, okay." 

But he doesn’t close his eyes and he doesn't look away, just stays on his elbow, watching as Seth opens his fly, pulls down the jeans, and takes his dick out. Because Dean won't close his eyes, Seth has to. 

It's been years. They haven’t done this since FCW, and Seth is terrified his inexperience will show and terrified that it won't, that Dean will think he does this every night. But it doesn't take long until his thoughts scatter like birds in flight and he loses himself in the bliss of touch and taste. It's nothing like Seth remembered. Over the years, the act has grown both pornographic and glossed over in his mind. He’s forgotten about the intimacy of it, the sheer physicality, Dean’s pubic hair tickling his nose, his beard leaving a rash, the fact that he actually has a gag reflex, and the way Dean’s thigh tremble under his hand, the jump of his abs when Seth slides his hand up along his flat stomach, tracing the string of fine blonde hair towards his belly button. He’s forgotten about the sounds Dean makes, the sighs and the gasps, and how fucking gentle and considerate he is, one hand resting on Seth’s head, neither pushing nor pulling, fingers absently curled in his hair, scratching against his scalp. 

It’s been years, and this doesn’t change anything that matters. He can’t take it back. He can’t make it right. It’s been years, and when he’s done Dean will get up and get dressed and leave and tomorrow they’ll be on a plane back to the States and it will be like this never happened. It’s been years, and he’s missed it, so he tries to make it last. When Dean comes, Seth swallows, then pulls back reluctantly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His jaw is aching, his lips swollen, throat raw. He realizes to his horror that his cheeks are wet. 

There are a hundred things he expects from Dean. Gently drawing him up and kissing away the tears is not among them. He doesn't deserve it or know how to take it, so he turns his face away. Dean presses his lips to his jaw, to his neck, to the hollow of his throat and Seth screws his eyes shut, forces back the sounds that try to escape his lips. He doesn't know what's happening to him, why Dean's touch is breaking him, and he digs his nails into Dean's arms, bites his shoulder. Dean refuses to retaliate.  

"Hey, shh, it's all right," Dean murmurs, and it's not, but he can't exactly force Dean to act like he hates him. Out of options, Seth surrenders, hiding his face against Dean's shoulder as Dean reaches down and jerks him off, slowly, tenderly, until Seth spills all over his hand. 

And all Seth can think is: This wasn't how it was supposed to be. 

They get dressed in awkward silence. Seth finds it hard to look at Dean and hard to look away. He wants a drink. Wants to call Hunter, get some reassurance, a promise that he's on the right path, that he's still wanted, made the right call. His Money in the Bank-briefcase is standing by the wall, beautiful and ugly as sin, and it has to have been worth it. It has to. 

”I’m not,” Dean says out of nowhere as he buckles his belt and runs a hand through his hair. ”Seeing anyone,” he adds at Seth’s questioning look. 

"Oh." It shouldn't matter but Seth's heart still leaps. "I thought-" 

"I know." Dean grins, obnoxious and smug. "You're cute when you're jealous." 

"Fuck you, Ambrose." 

"Any time, babe," Dean says and waggles his eyebrows. At the door, he pauses. "Hey, Seth? Happy Valentine’s.” He flips something at Seth and Seth catches it automatically.  
   
After the door closes he opens his hand and sees a piece of gold-wrapped chocolate, stamped with the hotel’s logo. The chocolate’s a little melted, sticky and sweet on his tongue, and after eating it he licks the wrapper clean, then folds it carefully and sticks it in his wallet.  

The bed is still warm when he turns off the lights and curls up under the covers.


End file.
